"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. ’” “Yes?” “I think—yes, I went on in a pleasing blend of the casual and sotto voce, ‘The fact of it is, sir, I happen to be your son-in-law, Capes. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp.
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